


The Last Rope

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Football RPF, Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Character Death, Dark Fantasy, Forced Marriage, Heavy Angst, Historical Fantasy, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-05 03:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: In Memo’s dreams, his wedding was orange blossoms, cheerful laughter, and sparkling wine, and many happy years followed after. But dreams, he should have known, rarely come true.A 1001 Nights retelling.





	The Last Rope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeapAngstily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/gifts), [behzaintfunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/gifts).



> Written as a Christmas gift for the football swap.
> 
> The song I listened to on repeat while writing this is Sign by RAIGN. So if you want to know the general mood of it, you can listen to this one.

****

_It’s odd, the things you remember when you’re watching someone die. Every time, it was something different, a memory Riccardo never knew he had. Sometimes a happy one, of him as a child, running through the halls of the palace, the chiming voices of his childhood friends sounding behind him as they chased him around in a game of hide-and-seek. Sometimes it was one he would rather let sleep forever, a memory of him looking at the crown that belonged to him for mere minutes and that he was yet scared to touch. But always a memory that would only come once, at the price of yet another life._

_And when death came, it came slowly, like a storm cloud darkening the sun, taking away the memory and thrusting him back into the vibrant colors of reality._

_The dark hair spilled over the marble floor like river at midnight. The rope marks, violently red against the pale skin. The heaviness of the limbs. And the silence, finally the silence._

_Sometimes death was peaceful, merciful and quiet. Not today._

_Dark eyes followed him as he descended the couple marble steps. One would think he’d learn to ignore the gaze after so many times, but it was impossible not to feel it on him._

_He knelt on the marble floor and tugged on the rope. The noose came undone; it was a practiced move. He slowly slipped it off and wrapped it around his hand. The silk caressed him like it wanted to console him. But nothing in the world could._

_When he got up, the room was empty. Just him, and the dead body on the floor._

~ ~ ~

In Memo’s dreams, his wedding was orange blossoms, cheerful laughter, and sparkling wine, and many happy years followed after. But dreams, he should have known, rarely come true.

They dress him in white, a long brocade coat over silk shirt and pants. The clothes are brand new and all he can think of is that this is such a waste of money, as he will only wear them once. Maybe twice, if they decide to dress him in white for his funeral as well.

The great hall is not decorated at all. They’ve probably given up on such details, as the country, albeit rich, doesn’t have money to be splurged on hundreds of weddings that are all alike and end before the sun rises on the following day. The priest also looks like he’s tired of saying the same thing over and over again, and the courtiers most likely wouldn’t be here if they didn’t have to. 

Memo has never met his future spouse before, but Riccardo barely looks at him, like it doesn’t even matter to him who is standing by his side this time. He stares ahead and probably doesn’t even listen to whatever the priest is saying, because he has heard this hundreds and hundreds times before. For Memo it’s the first time, and also the last. He has promised himself not to cry, not in front of the monster at least, but he keeps praying for the ceremony to be over soon, because he doesn’t know for how long he can keep this promise.

He gives Riccardo his hand when he’s supposed to, and accepts the priest’s blessing, which could also serve as last rites, given the situation. There is no wedding dance, no feast. Before he knows it, it’s over. 

Andrea, the man who seems to be in charge of Riccardo’s court, takes him around his shoulders as they walk down the long corridors. Memo doesn’t know if he is this comforting with everyone, or if just he looks like he needs it. The guards open the door of what is supposed to be Memo’s room for the night.

“Is he not going to… ?” he asks when Andrea leads him in.

“Later,” Andrea says. “You have some time to yourself now.”

Memo would rather have no time to himself. All the time he spends with himself is filled with gloomy thoughts and fear. He’d almost prefer the monster’s company. 

Andrea closes the door, and although Memo hears no key being turned in the lock, he doesn’t even try to open the door. Four guards marched him to the great hall and six took him back to his room, and if he can still trust his instincts, they never left.

The room is spacious and there’s everything he could possibly need - a table with food and wine, a basin with water, an armchair to sit in, even a few books to read. And the bed that takes almost half of the room’s space. The bed nobody sleeps in more than once.

There’s fire crackling in the fireplace. Memo takes off the coat and throws it on the bed. Then it somehow seems inappropriate to him, and he quickly picks it up and puts it on the armchair. He wanders to the basin and splashes cold water in his face, then touches the books neatly piled on the low table next to the armchair. They would surely entertain him well enough, if he could read.

Finally, he sits in the armchair, pulls his knees to his chin and closes his eyes. No matter what he does, the gloomy thoughts and fear will always worm their way in.

~ ~ ~

A cacophony of voices tears him out of his thoughts. He can’t yet understand any words, but the voices are growing louder and closer. Memo walks to the window and pushes aside the heavy curtain.

A crowd of people has gathered under the windows opposite to his. Judging by their clothes and faces, they came from both the city and the surrounding villages. Even if they were silent, Memo could feel their anger. There isn’t much to understand of their shouting, anyway, as it consists of little more than Riccardo’s name. 

A sudden movement in the corner of his eye makes him look up. Archers have appeared on the roof of the palace, bows ready, aiming at the crowd, like they are only waiting for a command to fire. 

The largest window opens slowly, and Riccardo walks out on the balcony, still wearing the clothes Memo remembers from the great hall. He doesn’t raise his hand to give the command to the archers, he doesn’t do anything to silence the angry crowd. He just stands there and looks down on them, hands laid on the stone railing. And one by one, the people fall silent. It’s almost like by looking at him, they understand something. Because it’s not fear - the bows would have stopped them then. It’s respect, or understanding.

Riccardo stands there until the last voice dies out and the courtyard is completely silent. Then he turns slightly and looks at Memo before Memo can jump back behind the curtain. But Riccardo only completes the turn and disappears behind the balcony door.

~ ~ ~

Memo barely has time to recompose himself when the door opens and Riccardo walks in. Memo expects the guards to come in as well, but they stay outside the door, unseen but quietly present, and Riccardo doesn’t look like he’s afraid of anything. Not that it surprises Memo. He wasn’t afraid of the angry crowd, why would he be afraid of one man?

“They care about you,” Riccardo notes, wandering to the set table. He picks up an orange like it’s waiting there for him. Of course, everything in the palace belongs to him.

“Do they?” Memo shrugs. “They don’t even know my name. Have you considered that perhaps it’s not about me at all? That they’ve simply… had enough?” 

“They’ve had enough a long time ago,” Riccardo says calmly and sits on the sofa behind the table. Then he points to the armchair. “Sit down.” 

Memo does, because obeying commands is the easiest way of coping with this situation, but he still doesn’t understand what’s going on. “Are we not going to… ?” 

“Going to what?” Riccardo asks.

“Consummate the marriage.”

Riccardo laughs, and his laughter doesn’t sound at all like Memo had imagined it would. It’s a rather pleasant sound. Genuine, if he can tell. “You are the first one to ask.” 

Memo blinks. “You mean you’ve never…” 

“No. I’m just saying that you’re the first one to ask,” Riccardo says calmly and pours wine into two cups. “We have enough time.” 

Memo looks at him, marveling at the sudden surge of courage that makes him raise his eyes to meet the blue. “Until dawn?”

Riccardo’s eyes don’t betray any emotion. Nor does his voice. “Until dawn.” He hands Memo one of the cups and lifts the other to his lips.

Memo looks at the dark surface in his cup, then judges it too impolite not to drink as well. The wine tastes sweet and spicy at the same time.

“Do you always do this?” he asks, feeling the wine warming up his throat. “I mean, if you always spend the entire night with your…” He doesn’t quite know what word to use. Spouse? Victim?

“No,” Riccardo says. “Sometimes they don’t want me to. Sometimes I don’t want to.” 

“Now you want to?”

Riccardo shrugs and leans back on the sofa, making himself comfortable and peeling the orange with practiced moves, his eyes not leaving Memo’s face. The difference between how relaxed he is, and how tense and nervous Memo feels is striking. “Only if you don’t mind my presence.” 

“I don’t,” Memo says, and it surprises him how much it is true. “I… I actually wanted you to be here. I wanted you to come.”

Riccardo frowns now, and there’s a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “If you are planning on starting a story with no intention of finishing it, save yourself the breath. The old tricks don’t work on me, and I’m not fond of stories either. 

“Good. Because I’m terrible at telling them,” Memo smirks. “I wanted you to be here because it’s much worse being alone and think of… tomorrow.” 

“Doesn’t my presence remind you of tomorrow more than anything else?” 

“It’s better to see the truth than to imagine it,” Memo shakes his head, sipping on the wine again, getting used to the taste.

“You are different,” Riccardo says quietly. “Different than the others.”

“You’re also not who I expected you to be,” Memo says, studying Riccardo’s face. They couldn’t be more different indeed. What is warm about Memo is cold about Riccardo, what is round is sharp, what is dark is light. He remembers the brief moment they held hands in the great hall, the contrast of Memo’s skin against Riccardo’s pale, slender fingers. 

“And who did you expect me to be?” Riccardo asks and refills their cups. 

Memo shrugs. “You don’t look like a monster.” 

“Do monsters have to look like monsters?” Riccardo asks. “Those who don’t are more dangerous.” 

“No, I… I expected you to be… vile, cruel… but you are just… sad.” 

Riccardo looks at him. “I’m going to have you killed tomorrow. I _am_ vile and cruel. If it makes me sad or not shouldn’t matter to you.”

He’s right. It shouldn’t.

“I’m not going to ask why you do this,” Memo says. “I just have to know you have a reason, whatever it is.” 

“What if it’s just a whim?” Riccardo asks.

“It’s not a whim. A whim is supposed to bring you pleasure. But you look like it only brings you suffering.” 

Riccardo doesn’t answer, just takes another sip from the cup.

“Do you ever watch?” Memo asks. He can’t get the thought from his mind; it’s almost like his mind is morbidly obsessed with his fate now.

Riccardo puts the cup on the table, softly. The crimson surface barely moves. “Always.”

“Well, at least you’re not a coward.”

“You call that heroism?”

“Respect,” Memo says. “And I want you to be there.” 

The wine is strong, and he feels it warming him up, the tense muscles loosening up and eyelids growing somewhat heavy. And yet it gives him more courage.

Riccardo seems to have a much higher tolerance. Who knows how much of it he drinks to forget, after all. But he looks more approachable now, more human.

He reaches for the one loose curl on Memo’s forehead like he wants to push it back, but then he just holds it between his fingers. “If you want me to leave now, I will,” he says.

Memo just looks at him. “But we have to…” 

“We don’t. I believe it’s not really necessary. Just a custom.” 

“We have to,” Memo says resolutely. “You said you always did. Why should it be different this time? Why should _I_ be different?” 

“Everyone would want to be different in your place.” 

“I don’t.” 

For the first time, something warm appears in Riccardo’s eyes, it barely flickers there, but Memo is quick to notice, and for some reason, the icy crust of fear around his heart suddenly falls apart. When Riccardo gets up and holds out a hand, he takes it. 

His fingers are suddenly clumsy and they get tangled in all the ties and laces he’s not used to. Nothing changes in Riccardo’s movements, they are sure and effective. He undresses them both the way he peels oranges. 

Riccardo doesn’t try to kiss him, and when Memo lifts his hand to his face, he looks genuinely surprised. It’s almost like he doesn’t know how to accept a gentle touch, like he’s already forgotten it, if he ever knew it. 

Everything tender about it all comes from Memo, and it seems to him that Riccardo only tries to copy his actions in an attempt to return the favor. Almost like it’s not Riccardo who’s done this so many times before. 

Once they settle under the satin sheets, Memo pushes back the strands of Riccardo’s hair that feels so different from his own. Riccardo doesn’t try to escape his touches, but he doesn’t look at him either. 

“Are you still afraid?” he asks then. 

“Afraid, yes,” Memo says. “But not scared.” 

Nothing else is said that night. When he falls asleep, Riccardo is still in his bed.

~ ~ ~

Memo wakes up when the sun is already high, shining on his face, warm and bright. He would happily bask in it, if it wasn’t for the terrible headache, and Andrea’s searching gaze on him.

“Have I slept through my own execution?” he asks as Andrea starts to push aside the rest of the curtains around his bed.

“As far as I know, it wasn’t scheduled for today,” Andrea says. He sounds calm as always, but there is certain bewilderment showing in his abrupt movements.

“How come?”

Andrea shrugs and hands Memo a silk night robe. He respectfully turns around as Memo scrambles out of the bed and puts it on. He still feels pretty much naked in the thin fabric.

“What happens now?” he asks, because he has no clue. He never thought beyond the wedding night, simply because he was supposed to be dead by now.

Andrea looks like he has no clue either. “Nothing. Have breakfast… and some coffee. As I’m looking at you, it will do you good.”

Memo approaches the table and looks at the suspicious black liquid in a kettle. Then he looks at Andrea again. “Has this happened before?” he asks.

“No,” Andrea says. “No one lived past dawn. Ever.”

Memo swallows hard. “He told me that he watched them die,” he whispers.

“He does. Every time. And takes the rope off their neck once it’s over.”

“Why?”

“The hell any of us know why he does what he does?” Andrea shrugs. “I don’t know why they died, I don’t know why you didn’t. You’ll have to ask him, if he will give you an answer.” 

Memo highly doubts it. He got no answers the night before, and he starts to suspect that not even Riccardo knows the answers to all his questions.

“I’m to let you know that you have the freedom of the palace now,” Andrea says. “No guards behind your door anymore.”

With that he walks out the door, leaving Memo stunned, with a cup of hot coffee in his hand.

~ ~ ~

Dark eyes follow him, no matter how many times he circles the room. Riccardo is used to the man’s company, way more than he would like to.

“One more and you’ll be free of me,” the man says. “You know that.”

“I do,” Riccardo says. 

“Then?” 

“What does it matter if it’s today or tomorrow?” Riccardo asks, eyes fixed on a terra-cotta tile that has a crack in it. He would look anywhere but at the man, and this tile has always been his refuge when they met in this room. 

“To me? It makes no difference. But to you, it does. You broke the rules. You are not the master of the game anymore.” 

Riccardo lifts his eyes defyingly. “I can do it anytime I please.” 

The man smiles. “If you truly believe that…” he sighs. “With every hour that passes, it will be harder. You should have done it while you had the chance, the usual way.”

Riccardo doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move as the man approaches him. He’s never been this close to him, Riccardo doesn’t remember him ever touching him, but now he does. 

“Maybe I’ll have to help you,” he whispers, fingers touching his face lightly. The touch is cold, void of any feeling. “Show you that debts must be paid. Always.”

~ ~ ~

Memo hesitates before he walks inside Riccardo’s chambers. It feels like breaking in, despite being invited. He doesn’t know what he expected, but he is somehow disappointed. Riccardo’s bedroom is simple, much simpler than his, and even ridiculously simple for someone who sits on a throne and is the richest man in the whole country.

Riccardo is sitting in an armchair, by far the most comfortable piece of furniture in the room, and maybe the only one that isn’t only perfunctory. It seems like it is Riccardo’s favorite place, but even so, he doesn’t seem to feel comfortable. He is much paler than Memo remembers him from previous night, and there’s a feverish glint in his eyes. 

There is a chess board on the small table in front of him, with a game already started. 

“Have you been playing with yourself?” Memo smiles.

Riccardo makes a move and looks at him. “It’s not the first time,” he says.

Memo sits opposite to him and looks at the board. Then he tentatively moves a figure. “I thought you were supposed to play this with someone,” he says. “With a friend, maybe?” 

“My childhood friends have all deserted me,” Riccardo smiles bitterly. “And I can’t blame them. If I could run away from myself the way they did, I would.”

“I got the impression that Andrea was your friend,” Memo says.

“Yes, he is,” Riccardo nods. “The only one that remained. I don’t know why. Maybe he pitied me. Like you.”

“I don’t pity you,” Memo says. “Forgive me, but I can’t pity someone who killed so many innocent people.”

“Forgiven,” Riccardo smiles. “I can’t even pity myself.” 

“But I do feel sorry for you,” Memo says then. 

“What difference does it make?” Riccardo frowns, taking another of Memo’s figures. “Check.” 

“To pity you, I’d have to know your reason, and understand it, and know that you have no choice. But to feel sorry for you, I only have to see your pain.” 

“My pain,” Riccardo smiles bitterly. “You know nothing about my pain.”

“No,” Memo admits calmly. “I know nothing, but I feel all of it. And something… something about you makes me want to take it away from you.”

For a moment, a fraction of second, he thinks Riccardo will start crying. Then a quiet sound of wood against wood interrupts the silence. 

“Check mate,” Riccardo says.

~ ~ ~

Memo wakes up in the middle of the night. There is more light in the room than there should be, and it’s not as quiet outside as it should be. He throws away the blanket and walks to the window. 

Orange light is blinking behind the walls of the palace and the air is filled with smoke.

Memo throws on the clothes closest to him, haphazardly, and opens the door of his bedroom. No guards are standing there indeed. 

One of the houses in the lower palace, probably belonging to servants, is on fire. People are running around with pails of water that do little to tame the wild flames. A woman is shrieking desperately, held back by several other people.

If he wants to run away, this is the moment. In the chaos, no one would notice, and before they would, he could be far away from the palace

He turns to the gates. They are open, probably to let people out in case the fire would spread, or to give them access to water. Slipping out would be incredibly easy.

He takes the first step towards the gate when he catches a glimpse of a familiar figure. 

Without the fancy velvet coats, wearing only a shirt and simple pants, Riccardo almost blends in with the commoners. He shoots a quick look at the burning house, then the shrieking woman. Then he runs inside the burning house before anyone can stop him.

Memo forgets about running away, forgets about everything. His world now is the burning house, and time stops.

It only starts to run again when Riccardo emerges from the flames, carrying a small child in his arms. There’s nothing but rage written on his face, and maybe it’s so blinding that he doesn’t even notice Memo, despite him standing mere three steps away from him. 

He thrusts the child in the woman’s arms and walks away without a word.

~ ~ ~

Riccardo walks into the dark throne room and looks around. 

“Where are you?” he shouts. “Come out!” 

“I’m here,” a soft voice sounds somewhere in the darkest corner. “I’m always here.” 

Riccardo turns around and walks to the abandoned throne. It shines strangely in the moonlight, and when he was younger, he used to be afraid of it. His heart used to threaten to jump out of his chest whenever he was supposed to sit on it. Then he started to fear other things. “What was that?” he asks. “A threat? Are you blackmailing me now?”

“Just reminding you of your debt,” the man says, coming out of the shadows. The silver light of the moon reflects on his dark curls. 

“I never forgot about it.” 

The smile on the man’s lips is almost condescending. “You may remember it. But what I’m interested in is you paying it.” 

Riccardo looks at him. Somehow, anger makes him fearless. Anger was what made him run inside the burning house. Anger is what gives him courage to look the man in the eyes. “And until I do, this is what you are going to do? Act like a spurned lover?” 

“Bold of you to assume I know such feelings,” the man says. “Jealousy. It would be interesting to know it. But I’m doing it for your own good, Riccardo. It will not be long before the darkness consumes your heart, if you don’t buy yourself out.” 

“It’s my heart,” Riccardo says. “I can choose what to do with it. Leave others out of it. Don’t be a coward.”

The man laughs. “You are the first one to call me that,” he says. “But am I the coward? Or is it you?” 

“I don’t set innocent people’s houses on fire!” 

The man only smiles, somewhat sadly this time. “It’s not always about who started the fire in the house,” he says. “Sometimes it’s about who started the fire in the mind of that person.” 

“You started every fire here, Edinson,” Riccardo whispers. “And the only person burning is me.”

~ ~ ~

The door to Memo’s room screeches. It would be a good warning sign, if there was anywhere to run. 

Four soldiers pour in and drag him out of the door before he can even wake up properly. Before he can start to be really scared. 

He knew he would die, he shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t have let himself be lulled by the false feeling of safety. And he shouldn’t feel like Riccardo betrayed him now. Because he didn’t, did he? He just did what he promised he would do. 

The room is large, and it’s all empty and cold, walls and floors and columns all built of marble. No fire to warm up the cold stone under his bare feet. Apparently, feeling warm isn’t necessary while dying. 

He stands there, looking at the unfamiliar faces of the soldiers. They don’t seem to be looking back at him, though. They are looking at some spot behind him. Memo turns his head slowly. A single cord of silk rope is dangling from the ceiling. 

When the initial wave of panic washes over him and returns to the sea of constant fear, he realizes that something is not right.

_He told me that he watched them die._

_He does. Every time._

Someone grabs him by the shoulders. Memo is grateful for the fear robbing him of his voice, because at least he won’t grant them the satisfaction of hearing him beg. Only the tears fall, silently, and he feels like they have every right.

He had thought he would fight it, but save for his fingers clawing desperately at the rope around his neck, he is strangely calm and resigned. 

An emerald smudge flashes in front of his vision, and a glint of silver. Only when he hits the ground, hard, he realizes that it was Andrea he saw, his emerald coat, and the glint of his sword when he cut the rope.

He takes a rasping breath, then another, and his vision clears somehow. His neck is on fire and so is his chest, but he still turns his head when he hears a familiar voice.

Riccardo is yelling at someone.

Blood splashes on the marble floor.

Something heavy falls on the ground. There is a sound of metal against marble.

And then someone takes him in his arms, hands slide carefully under his neck and lift him up. Riccardo’s body warms him up, almost like it returns life to his. Memo opens his eyes and does the unthinkable.

Smiles.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

Riccardo laughs in disbelief. “ _You_ are sorry?” 

“Yes,” Memo says and reaches for his hand. “Because I believed that you… I believed it was you. I’m sorry.”

~ ~ ~

“I’m such a monster that my subjects think they’ll please me when they kill someone,” Riccardo says, half to Andrea, half to himself. “They think they don’t even need my order anymore.” 

“They blamed him for the fire. Whoever got this thought in their minds.”

Riccardo knows who. He bites his tongue.

“It’s not going to repeat itself,” he says. 

“It surely isn’t, after you decapitated one of them in front of the others,” Andrea says.

“I had every right.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t,” Andrea says softly. “I just saw you kill someone with your own hands for the first time.”

Riccardo shrugs. “Maybe for the first time, I wasn’t a coward.”

Andrea takes a step closer to him. “You care about him,” he says quietly.

Riccardo smiles. “No, he cares about me,” he whispers. “He’s the first one who doesn’t see me as a monster. He feels sorry for me. As crazy as it is, he truly does.”

~ ~ ~

Memo wakes up in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know what woke him up, but he feels strangely restless. He gets up and walks over to the table to drink some water. His neck is still sore to the touch and the bruises from his unceremonious fall are starting to blossom, but his mind is completely alert. He opens the door and walks out on the corridor. It’s empty and quiet. 

He spends some time walking down the long corridors and large halls. The palace strangely feels safer and more welcoming when it’s asleep. At least nobody wants to murder him now. 

Suddenly, he finds himself in front of a small, inconspicuous door. He looks around, trying to remember where he is, but the corridor looks unfamiliar. He’s never wandered in this wing. 

He half expects the door to be locked, but when he pushes the handle, it opens quietly. The room is lit, like it’s waiting for him. He walks in, against his better judgment. 

It’s a long room, almost like someone built two walls in the middle of a corridor. There must be torches lit on the walls, but the light barely gets to shine through the strange curtains framing the center of the room, creating a narrow path. 

It takes him a while to realize what he is looking at. And when he does, the chill that goes through him almost brings him to his knees.

Ropes. Ropes everywhere.

Hanging on the beams that go all around the room, lined one next to another, so closely together that they indeed look like thick curtains. The only other thing in the room is a wooden ladder, propped against one of the beams, at the very end, almost touching the wall.

“Finally we meet,” a soft voice says.

Memo startles, looking at the long-haired man. He doesn’t know where he came from. Maybe he didn’t come from anywhere at all.

Memo remembers his face; it’s quite unforgettable. He’s caught glimpses of him in the great hall when he married Riccardo, and in the throne room, and in Riccardo’s chambers, and in front of the burning house. It was always just a glimpse, like the man was just leaving when Memo walked in, and was gone before he could blink.

“What is this?” Memo whispers.

The man smiles. “A promissory note?” he offers. “Or a memento mori, think of it as you like.” 

“Why?” Memo asks. “He doesn’t want to tell me why, maybe you can.”

“Oh, it’s a tale old as the world,” the man smiles. “A man falls in love with a woman he can’t have. But the man is also king, and has an army big enough to defeat the army of his rival.” 

“The king was… Riccardo’s father,” Memo says. “And the woman his mother.” 

The man nods, looking over his kingdom of ropes. “Two thousand warriors drew swords to fight a war they would never win,” he says. “To protect their king’s honor. But love was stronger, and had a stronger army. A love child he was, indeed. And his birth cost two thousand lives. That’s a high price. Too high for a human life. But what Death gives, Death takes back. You can’t be in debt with Death.”

“And the debt is two thousand lives,” Memo states.

“Exactly.”

Memo looks around. The rope curtains now feel even heavier, like they are bound to suffocate him any time.

“How many are hanging here?” he asks.

The man half-smiles and looks at him. It’s almost nauseating to look him in the eyes. “I think you know,” he says. 

Memo lowers his eyes. There is a silk rope in the man’s hand. A rope he definitely wasn’t holding before.

This time, he takes a step back as he starts to realize that the man he is taking to is not an ordinary man, if he is human at all.

“The debt will be paid when this room is full,” the man says.

“Then why not just hang the rope?” Memo shrugs. “It nearly took my life anyway. I went through it, and it wasn’t my choice not to die. It may as well count.”

“You’re just bargaining now,” the man sighs. “But I’ll let you try it. Go on. Hang the rope.” 

Memo takes the rope from him and grips the sides of the ladder. The man walks away from him, to the opposite side of the room.

The rope fits perfectly, filling the last gap. Somehow, Memo feels complete, like everything has just fallen in place, like everything is the way it should be. He climbs down the ladder, and once he’s standing firmly on the ground, turns back to the man. 

Smiling somewhat sadly, the man spreads his arms, fingers touching the silk ropes on either sides of the room. He starts walking up to Memo, slowly, fingers playing the ropes like a harp. It takes up all the courage Memo has for him to stand still and not run away screaming, because the rope harp has a sound. Voices, hundreds of voices, coming from everywhere and nowhere, screaming, pleading, crying. The only rope without a voice is Memo’s rope. The moment the man’s fingers touch it, blue flames run up the rope, and ash slowly floats down the beam, falling in Memo’s hair. 

“You cannot trick Death,” the man says, almost like he’s apologizing. “You cannot trick me.”

Memo takes a sharp breath. “You said two thousand lives… It could be any life, then. People die every day, old people, sick people who wished to die… Why doesn’t it count? Why did you want all those before me? Why do you want me?”

Death - it’s hard to think of the man as of what he really is - looks pleased. Memo can’t tell if with himself, or with how the conversation is going. “Remember your wedding vow?” he asks. “What you promised to your new husband?” 

Memo really has to wreck his brain, because he couldn’t hear the priest all that well over his own heartbeat, but suddenly, the memory of it hits him like a divine hammer. “To give my life for his,” he whispers.

Death nods. “I only have right to these lives. The warriors died because of an oath. Only those who promised to pay Riccardo’s debt can truly pay it.”

Memo just stares at him now. The game is much more cruel than he had imagined, and he doesn’t want to know whose idea it was, if Death’s own, or Riccardo’s.

“Now you know. There is only one way,” Death says and runs a hand through Memo’s curls, like he wants to brush the ash out of it. What he does looks like a cheap trick, except Memo knows that it’s real. 

He hands him the rope, intact, and walks out the door.

~ ~ ~

Memo lifts his head when the door screeches and Riccardo walks in. He looks like he hasn’t slept for weeks. The feverish glint is still in his eyes, and there are dark shadows under his cheekbones. His face is so pale he resembles a wax figurine of himself. 

“You wanted to speak to me?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Memo nods. “I know everything.” 

Riccardo looks at the rope lying on the table, and pales even more. 

“You kill your brides and grooms to pay your debt,” Memo says. 

“Yes,” Riccardo whispers. 

“You also have Death living… being… in your palace.”

Riccardo’s eyes shift around like he is searching for the dark-eyed man, but then his gaze returns to Memo.

“Yes,” he says again. 

“And he won’t leave until you kill me.”

“I won’t kill you,” Riccardo says defiantly.

“You will have to,” Memo whispers. “You have to pay your debt.” 

“I will not pay it with your life,” Riccardo says. “He can have whatever he wants, but not you.” 

He takes the rope and storms out of the room before Memo can take a breath.

~ ~ ~

Despite not getting nearly enough sleep the previous night, Memo can’t rest. Even when the light gets softer and the evening breeze blows through the open windows, he just lies on the sofa and stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the headache that hasn’t left him all day. 

Andrea brings him a kettle with coffee. “It helps with the headache,” he says. “Have some.” 

Memo nods and sits up. “Andrea?” he calls. 

Andrea turns around and looks at him. 

Memo bites on his lower lip. “Have you ever seen the man… The one that is always near Riccardo, but doesn’t talk to anyone else… long, dark hair, dark eyes…” 

“Edinson? Riccardo's advisor?” Andrea frowns. 

Memo blinks. “Is that what he told you he was?” 

Andrea looks as much taken aback. “It’s what Riccardo told me,” he says and then lowers his eyes. “But it’s been a long time since he last was honest with me.” 

“Maybe for your own good,” Memo whispers. 

“What do you mean?” Andrea asks.

“He may well be Riccardo’s advisor, if you consider he advised him to kill all those before me,” he says. 

Andrea laughs in disbelief. “Who would ever advise him something like that?” 

“Death.” 

Andrea gives him a long look, then he sits on the armrest of the sofa. 

“I’m not a fool,” Memo says. “Trust me. I talked to him.” 

“I trust you,” Andrea whispers. “No matter how crazy it sounds… before he died, Riccardo’s father told me he was leaving Riccardo a debt he would rather pay himself. I had no idea…” He runs a hand over his face. “It all started then… this Edinson appeared out of nowhere and sometimes Riccardo would only talk to him… and then he started with… that.” 

“And you never asked why?” 

“I did. He never told me. Everyone thought he went mad. I believed it, too.” He gets up and walks over to the window. “So many times I called him out on it… so many times I cursed him, and he just suffered through it, like… like he deserved it.” 

“He thinks that he does,” Memo says. “And also thinks that he can fight Death, but I’ve seen him, I’ve seen what he can do… And why should innocent people suffer just because Riccardo…” 

“Fell in love with you?” 

“Doesn’t want to kill me,” Memo corrects him half-heartedly. “But he has to. Death said only those who swore to give their life for his could pay his debt. And so many already died for this. Someone has to end it.” 

Andrea nods slowly. “Yes,” he whispers. “I wish you weren’t right, but you are. And there’s only one way to end it.” 

Memo looks at him and smiles bitterly. “That’s exactly what he said,” he says. “Death’s own words.”

~ ~ ~

Riccardo looks at the man watching him quietly from the corner. He has been doing it for quite a while, watching him shiver in his favorite armchair, gritting his teeth and scratching the armrests in agony. 

“What if I give you my life?” he asks when the pain finally lets him speak. 

The man raises his brows. “Your life?” he repeats. “That’s an interesting offer.” 

“Then take it,” Riccardo says, gets up and walks up to him, the decision giving him maybe more strength than he really has. 

“I would, maybe,” Death smiles, the smile that is unlike any other. “But the debt is paid now.”

Riccardo stops, his hand still half-reaching for Death’s. “It’s not,” he says, but feels a chill going down his spine, a much different from those caused by fever. 

“It is,” Death says calmly. “Bring me the last rope, so that I can go.”

Riccardo just stares at him. Then he turns on his heels and runs through the throne room like mad.

~ ~ ~

Memo turns around when the door to his room flies open. Riccardo stares at him like he’s just seen a ghost. 

“You are…” he breathes. 

Memo walks up to him and touches his face. No matter how miserable he looks, the fever is gone. 

“Are you all right?” he asks. 

“He said… he said the debt was paid, I thought…” Riccardo says, then his eyes widen, he spins around and runs out of the room before Memo can say a word.

Memo catches up with him at the door leading to the marble room. When Riccardo pushes the door, he already knows, but his hands still fly to his mouth to stifle the scream. 

Death is already waiting inside, standing in the middle of the marble room. Memo prefers to look at him and not to the side where the rope hangs, but he can’t quite escape the sight. He recognizes the emerald coat right away. 

“Bring me the last rope, so that I can go,” Death says softly. 

Memo expects Riccardo to scream, he expects a similar fit of rage that he remembers from this room, but Riccardo stays silent. He obeys the command like a soldier, handing Death the silk cord without a single word before returning to Andrea’s body. 

“How could you take his life?” Memo asks. “You told me…” 

“Only two kinds of people swear to give their life for his,” Death smiles. “His spouses… and the men in his service. I got what I wanted. No rules were broken.” 

“Just hearts,” Memo says, and it doesn’t even come out as an accusation. 

“Hearts can be mended,” Death says. “Trust me in this matter.” 

Memo nods, then turns away and walks up to Riccardo, kneels next to him and lays his hands on his shoulders. When he lifts his head, he catches the last glimpse of the man before he melts into the darkness, and he hears his voice somewhere deep in his mind. 

“You people will never stop surprising me.”


End file.
